Domino
by Deception's Call
Summary: When John is injured on a case and is admitted to the hospital, those at Scotland Yard come to realize that perhaps Sherlock Holmes has a heart after all.


**Hello lovely readers and fabulous fans :) Not much to this author's note except I'm sorry if there are any mistakes that I haven't caught cause I wrote this after an 18 hour journey (it almost killed me, seriously). So if there are any, I'm sorry! **

_Summary: When John is injured on a case and is admitted to the hospital, those at Scotland Yard come to realize that perhaps Sherlock Holmes has a heart after all. _

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

_Domino_

There had never been another moment where they had seen Sherlock look so broken.

It was a look that was terrifying. Something that was not befitting of a man like Sherlock Holmes.

It didn't fit, it just _didn't._

Seeing Sherlock being restrained from running over to John and the paramedics by Lestrade was certainly a sight that no one wanted to see ever again.

* * *

Maybe he should have seen it coming.

He counts for everything – every plan, every road, every detail. And yet, he didn't plan what would happen when the person he cared about the most got hurt.

Sherlock tries to think that it's because he never wanted to imagine John being hurt on his watch.

It all happened so quickly.

They were running, Sherlock sprinting ahead and John following behind, trying desperately to keep up with the long strides of the consulting detective. They were chasing down a serial killer who was notorious in writing love letters on the bodies of his victims, people who he had become infatuated with.

But, like every movie with a climax and every story with a hint of danger, nothing is ever that easy and nothing is ever that simple.

They turned a corner, Sherlock leading John down the dark back alley behind a laundry shop, fully knowing that Lestrade and his team were on their tail, ready to help when they've apprehended the criminal. It was best if they didn't all go after him.

Then a shot rang out, loud and deafening and Sherlock was sure that he felt a fast skim of wind pass by his arm and graze his skin.

It was so dark that even Sherlock didn't see the criminal's accomplice perched on a fire escape, gun in hand and ready to shoot.

He was so full of adrenaline with the rush of the chase that he hadn't even considered being careful.

He gasped and recoiled at the force of the wind against his skin and clutched the place on his arm where the bullet had grazed him. And when he peered back up, the criminal and the accomplice was gone.

He was just about to make a snide remark when he heard a pained gasp behind him and a hard thump on the ground.

He turned around and came face to face with his best friend – the person he cared about most in the world, curl into himself and slump to the ground with a bullet lodged in his abdomen.

"John…" he gasped quietly, eyes widening at the side of the blood blossoming like a rose on his shirt.

This wasn't supposed to happen, this wasn't the part of the plan.

Suddenly the pain from his arm subsided, and everything – every tendril, every vein, every artery of Sherlock's whole being was focused on John. There was no one else who was more important.

He fell to his knees, letting the crime fade away from his mind and get stored away in his mind palace, and began frantically dialing Lestrade's number. He shouldn't be far behind.

He felt his hands shiver, and his fingers were fumbling over the touch keys on his phone, barely being able to type in the correct number. With every groan and murmur of pain John wept, Sherlock's mind grew even more frantic.

He drew the phone up to his ear, shutting his eyes and letting a hand grasp John's in reassurance. His best friend had so far said nothing to him, and that terrified him.

"Sherlock, have you caught–"

"John's been shot."

He hears Lestrade take a deep intake of breath in surprise, and suddenly he's barking orders to what seems like Donovan to get the paramedics on the phone and send them to Sherlock and John's location immediately.

Lestrade doesn't mention the waver and the panic in Sherlock's voice.

"Stay put, Sherlock. _Stay put. _Don't do anything drastic. We're coming," Lestrade presses.

Sherlock nods even though he knows Lestrade can't see him.

"…How bad is it?"

When Sherlock looks at John's paling body and the growing pool of blood beneath his body and staining his hands, he really wants to say that the wound isn't bad at all. But his silence is enough of an answer.

Then Sherlock hears the wailing sirens in the distance, and feels John's hand respond to his grip.

"It's…okay…" John hisses, "I'm…okay."

Sherlock hangs up his phone and drops it on the ground, taking his coat off him and placing it around John's body, staining his hands and his clothes red with blood. He finds that his lips and throat are so chapped with the winter air that he can't say anything in reply. He just leans over John's body grasping their intertwined hands against his chest.

It's cold, but life without John is colder.

* * *

The cloud cover and the looming rain seem to have a mind of their own. The sky always darkens when something goes amiss.

The sirens from the police cars and the ambulance is almost deafening, bouncing and echoing off the walls and the pavements.

As the paramedics round up a gurney and prepare to place John on it, Sherlock refuses to let go of his hand.

Lestrade watches as Sherlock argues with the main paramedic, demanding and assuring that John would want Sherlock with him – that he _needs _to be with him.

Lestrade knows it's because Sherlock never wants to know the pain of losing a friend.

Despite Sherlock's constant reiteration that the police force is incompetent, and that he 'sees but does not observe,' Lestrade isn't stupid. He can see – and observe, things perfectly fine.

For example he can see Sherlock's slightly more ruffled hair and blood stains on his hands and crisp white shirt. He held John's hand when they were waiting and held it towards his body. There are light blood streaks on his face which contrasts his pale skin, marked from when Sherlock ran his hands over his face in fear and frustration.

He looked like a mess with John's blood staining his clothes and skin.

"_I need to be with him!"_ Lestrade hears a firm voice shout. He snaps out of his thoughts and sees Sherlock being pulled away from the gurney holding John. He's fighting, pushing and pulling from the grasp of the secondary paramedic but to no avail. He's too weak from fear and weariness to succeed.

Lestrade decides to intervene, knowing fully well that Sherlock would respond much better to a person that he knew. He closed in on the struggling pair and shrugged off the man before taking the flustered consulting detective in his own hands.

"Sherlock, please!" he pleads. Complaining and resisting will only create delay in John's much needed medical attention.

He knows it's bad. He saw all the blood.

Under the light of the street lamp and the moon in the sky, Lestrade saw something shining on Sherlock's face when he turned around.

Tears. Sherlock was _crying. _

"This wasn't part of the plan," Sherlock whispered harshly, arm still held in Lestrade's grasp, "the bullet was meant for me."

He had never seen Sherlock's blue eyes look so dark before.

"It wasn't your fault," he reassured him.

Sherlock shook his head wildly, almost like he was trying to get a hold of his scattered thoughts. "No, no, I should have been careful. I should have been the one that took the shot."

He bowed his head down as Lestrade watched him slump against the wall and slide down to the floor with his head in his hands.

It's uncharacteristic of Sherlock, the manner that he is acting in right now is not of his usual reverence, but fire exposes our priorities and it was so painfully obvious who's Sherlock's priority was.

This is Sherlock's _best friend, _and seeing your best friend bleed out in front of you is enough to turn any man insane. Enough to change any man.

Quarantined off to the corner, officers from Scotland Yard look on as the 'freak' who seemed like he didn't have a heart at all began to wear his heart on his sleeve.

Sally Donovan found herself rooted to the spot beside her car, eyes trained on the bloodied body of John Watson being wheeled into the ambulance and her boss restraining the army doctor's best friend. The supposed high-functioning sociopath who had a capacity to feel.

It wasn't right. She had never seen Sherlock look quite so frazzled.

Then she saw him fall against the wall and curl in on himself, and what was that – tears?

"Is the freak crying?" she asked, dumbfounded.

Anderson beside her squinted his eyes before a somber expression fell on his face. He nodded solemnly.

They watched at the ambulance drove away, leaving a tearful detective and a pool of blood in its wake.

They're never going to forget the look on his face.

They pray for the life of the man who will suffer Sherlock's wrath.

* * *

It was two days after the incident when those at Scotland Yard got news about John's condition.

Lestrade walked in, dark circles under his eyes and a hot cup of coffee in his hands, after a night waiting by John's bedside with Sherlock.

As he plopped down into his seat by his desk, he rubbed his hands over his face in weariness. He fears for the sanity of the doctors at the hospital.

"_I'm sorry sir, but visiting hours are over."_

"_I don't care."_

"_Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid –"_

"_Just tell me!"_

"_Sir, you haven't slept since your friend got admitted."_

"_I've gone longer than 48 hours with no sleep."_

And that didn't include Sherlock's constant ridicule of their techniques and handling, as well as his constant pestering concerning John's wellbeing and when he'd be able to come home.

They had put John in an induced coma, as he suffered massive blood loss and the bullet that pierced one of his lungs would keep him in constant pain. They'd let him wake up when the pain would be bearable and plausible enough for painkillers.

Sherlock hadn't left his side.

Mrs. Hudson had come to visit, so had Molly, Harry and even Mycroft. But none of them stayed nearly as long as Sherlock did.

Lestrade had decided to stay with him when he came to visit the night before, because if John wasn't there to take care of him, then someone had to do it.

Sherlock had changed his clothes, he still looked crisp and pristine, and Lestrade was sure that Mrs. Hudson was the one that brought him a change of clothes and food to eat. The food was untouched, though.

He looked so sad.

Before going to the hospital, though, he had ordered his team at Scotland Yard to apprehend the culprit and his accomplice before Sherlock could get to them first. God knows what Sherlock might do to that man once he finds him.

"Sir?" there was a knock at the door.

Lestrade peered up and saw Sally leaning against the doorframe tentatively.

"Yes?"

"We were wondering if…" she bit her lip and widened the opening of the door more to reveal a crowd of officers behind her, including, surprisingly, Anderson. "We were wondering if you got any news on John?"

Lestrade blinked. "Yes I do, actually."

"Oh, okay, so…" she swallowed deeply, "how is he?"

"He's in an induced coma, the bullet pierced a lung and he's waiting for a blood donor."

He doesn't mention that Sherlock went up for the challenge before discovering that he didn't have the same blood type.

He sees as the faces in the crowd darken and sadden. Sally speaks up once more, "And the frea – Sherlock?" she catches herself at the last moment.

Lestrade almost smiles at her attempt to not worsen things. "He hasn't left John's side."

He hears sharp breaths being taken in from the crowd, obviously overwhelmed and shocked at the prospect that Sherlock Holmes actually had the capability to _care._

Sally turns around and nods to the crowd and they nod back, coming to an understanding.

"Will you send our regards to them?" she asks.

Lestrade smiles softly, "Of course."

The officers smile and begin to move away, going back to their desks and resuming their paperwork. Sally and Anderson are the only ones that remain.

"Yes?"

Anderson shuffles on his feet, "Are they going to be okay?"

Lestrade quirks an eyebrow, "They?"

Anderson nods, "Sherlock and John. They going to be okay?"

"Since when do you care about Sherlock?"

He watches as Anderson's eyes dart to Sally's and back to him. "I may not like him, but I wouldn't wish this on anybody."

"He'll be fine once John is out. All he's really waiting for is him to wake up."

"Why?" Sally asks.

"The bullet was meant for him, not John, so he feels guilty," Lestrade shrugs in a tired way.

Sally's and Anderson's mouths form an 'o' and they nod in understanding.

Everyone knew that Sherlock and John were like a domino effect. One could not fall without the other falling with them.

"Just tell him we wish for John to get better?" Sally continues.

The detective inspector nods fervently, "I will. Thank you."

He watches as they both leave the office and return to their desks, and he ignores the whispers about Sherlock Holmes flittering through the thin walls of the building.

He returns to his paperwork.

* * *

Those at Scotland Yard never speak of the incident. Not after John finally gets out of the hospital and they realize that they haven't seen Sherlock around for a month. It goes unsaid the thought that Sherlock is taking care of his best friend. For once he leaves the police force to track down the criminal. They catch him eventually and he's put behind bars. Lestrade grows slightly fonder of Sherlock after the man displays that he would much rather be with John and helping him heal than leave him alone.

After years of collaboration and countless insults and the accusation that lead to his fall, they had never seen such an act come from Sherlock Holmes until that day.

He was a psychopath according to some, a sociopath according to another, but there was one thing that the officers at Scotland Yard knew for sure.

Sherlock Holmes had a heart.

And when he returns to his first crime scene since the incident with John in tow, they pretend not to notice the more protective stance that Sherlock takes towards his best friend.

Sally calls him 'freak,' Anderson makes a snide remark and the remaining officers mind their own business and try to act normally, but they're all doing it with a new outlook on the man running around in a pristine suit and a dark coat.

But John Watson is there with Sherlock Holmes, and that's all that actually matters.

* * *

**Ta-daaaa! Sorry for any mistakes that could have been made and missed out :S **

**But thank you so much for reading! Means a lot! **

**Review please? Because your feedback means so much to me. :)**

**Until next time! :D **


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